Red Shark

He tried to put himself in the North Korean skipper’s mind. The man either lacked patience or was too easily spooked to action. Why else would he have broken cover and fired at the Reno? Could he be spooked again? Scott thought he could, especially with the pressure the Chinese DDs and frigates were applying. He felt the pressure himself and knew he didn’t have much time left to find and hit the Red Shark before the Chinese were down his throat. The NK skipper had to be feeling the pressure too, which might cause him to make another mistake. Just don’t you make a mistake, Scott reminded himself.

He looked at the ship’s clock: 2120. How many junks and steamers had they underrun? How many fishing boats with gill nets over the side waiting to snag a diving plane? Scott had run up the scope at least a dozen times to check bearings against known landmarks on the navigation charts only to see lights coming at them out of the gloom, usually a lantern-festooned junk oblivious to the Reno’s presence. They’d been steaming in shallow water for over six hours, the sandy bottom at times coming within yards of the Reno’s keel. Another coat of paint, Kramer had joked, and then there was the damage topside caused by the torpedo…

“Conn, Sonar, I’ve got a contact.”

Scott slipped into the sonar room. “Let’s see it, Chief.”

“Here.” The chief pointed out a hair-thin line. Low-frequency background tonals cluttered up the display. “Lotsa bottom scatter. Makes it hard to home in on this baby, but it’s mechanical, not biological.”

“You’re sure, Chief?”

“Too regular for a biological. Pretty much dead ahead of us but with a drift toward the west, like it’s hugging the coast and trying to high step over obstacles, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“Start tracking it.”

“Aye, sir, we’ll call it Sierra One. Oops, where’d it go?”

The line had vanished off the screen. Scott waited while the chief tried to reacquire it, but several minutes passed without success.

“Call me when you have it—”

“There it is again, sir. See it?”

“Yeah. Still faint. Maybe if we pull left, get out from behind it—”

“Might work.”

Scott, in the control room, gave orders that put the Reno’s wide aperture array where the chief wanted it.

“Chief?”

“Conn, I’ve got a solid contact but can’t put a name to it.”

“OOD, sound silent battle stations, rig for ultra-quiet.”

“Silent battle stations, ultra-quiet, aye.”

After his orders had been passed by mouth throughout the ship, and with all stations manned, Scott stood over the plotting table. The target had to be the Red Shark, he reasoned. And unless the NKs had picked up the Reno again, there was no way they’d know they were being tracked from astern, in the Red Shark’s baffles. If they knew, Scott was certain that her skipper would have reacted by now.

He waited, silently urging the chief to make an ID. They were slowly running out of room to maneuver and fight: Shanghai was less than ninety miles south and they’d soon be entering its busy seaward approaches.

“Conn, Sonar, Skipper, can you please come west a touch, I’m gettin’ a turn rate, but I need another angle on it to be sure.”

The Reno jinked west; Scott waited, the control room dead quiet.

“Conn, Sonar, I can identify Sierra One as Red Shark. Tonals match our previous line. Exactly.”

Electricity seemed to crackle through the control room. “Chief, you’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt about it. She’s making turns for five knots. Uh… wait one.”

“Wait, aye.” Come on, come on, Scott thought. She won’t be deaf forever.

“Conn, sonar, I’ve lost contact with Sierra One.”